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THE RED BOOK 


AND 

MARY ANNE. 


BY THE AUTHOR OF 


LITTLE HENRY AND HIS BEARER, 

t 


First American from the Second London Edition, 


NEW-YORK; 

PENDLETON AND HILL 94 BROADWAY. 




1831. 


\ 






G. F. Bunco, Printer, 
224 Cherry -St. 



THE RED BOOK. 


I AM one of several happy sisters, living in 
the house in which we were born, and partak- 
ing of every comfort which children can en- 
joy under a tender parent’s roof, 

I have two sisters older than myself, and as 
many younger ; and, in order to give my 
reader an idea of our ages, I must add, that 
we are all in our teens, though our eldest 
sister will soon arrive at the dignity of being 
twenty years of age. 

j We live in the country, but within a pleas- 
5 pS ant walk of one of the prettiest towns in Eng- 
' > ■ land ; and if we have the privilege o^ attend- 
r ■ ing an excellent preacher in the town, we have, 
also, the delight of seeing some of the most 
beautiful works of God from the windows of 


4 


THE RED BOOK. 



our house. There are two rooms, opening in- 
to each other, at the top of the- house, which 
our kind parents have given up entirely to us. 
In these we have each a bed, a chair, .and a 
chest of drawers ; and, in cold weather, we 
are allowed a fire in one of these rooms. We 
have each of us, also, a table with a small 
looking-glass upon it ; and we are required to 


keep every thing in the exactest order. My 
place in these rooms is I consider far the most 
pleasant, though my sisters do not agree^fitli 
me, and that you will say is quite as well, for 
if all human beings had the same tastes, there 


THE RED BOOK. 


9 


nets ; thus I spent every moment I could get to 
myself in study ing and consulting my glass ; 
and though my parents, more than once told 
me that my glass was a false friend, and even 
gave me bad advice in the very thing in which 
it might be supposed to be most sincere, for it 
taught me to disfigure rather than to adorn my- 
self ; yet I was not to be persuaded. I had 
been at Bath, and I thought I knew better 
than any body else what was genteel and 
fashionable, and I would not believe either of 
my parents when they told me that I had ac- 
quired a false taste, and was in the way to 
make myself very ridiculous. 

Thus, however, I went on, endeavouring 
(though in vain) to make myself happy in my 
own way, lill the month of January, 1828, 
when my father, one day whilst we were sit- 
ting after dinner, received a small packet from 
London ; he opened it immediately ; it contain- 
ed a number of little books bound in red, and 
made to close like pocket-books. My father 
smiled as he opened the packet, and placing 
the books in a row before him on the table, he 
guarded them in a playful way with his hand, 
saying. No oiie touches either of these books 
before I have made my bargain. 


10 


THE RED BOOK.* 


“ Your bargain, papa,” said my youngest sis- 
ter, “ money do you mean, I am ready to pay 
all you ask ; you will not want more than half- 
a-crown, I dare say, for one book, papa ; pray 
let me have one of those beautiful books.” 

“ Money will not satisfy me,” said our papa, 

‘‘ I must have a promise from each of you, be- 
fore I give out these books, that you will keep 
them on your toilet, and repeat or read the 
portions for the day, every time you look in 
your glasses.” , 

A smile went round on hearing this propo- 
sal ; and I fancied there was a direction of eve- | 
ry eye towards me, by which I was a little em- 
barrassed ; however, I willingly added my | 
voice to those of my sisters, assuriii^ our father , 
that each of us would gladly accept a little ' 
Red Book on the proposed terms. “Think || 
again,” added our father, solemnly, “ are you | 
not making rather a blind bargain 1 you have i 
not seen the inside of these books. I have in- i 
deed hinted that they contain a portion of 
something appropriated for each day, and I 
will now tell you, that there are as many por- 
tions as there are days in the present year ; but 
how do you know what sort of sentiments nmy 
foe contained in these portions 


THE RED BOOK. 


11 


“We are not so blind as you would make it 
appear, dear papa,” replied my eldest sister ; 
“ we know whom we are dealing with, and wo 
again accept your terms.” “ Well then,” he 
said, “remember we are upon honour, take 
each your book, and may they be blessed to 
you,” so saying, he presented each of us with 
a book, and rising went out of the room. We 
were impatient, you may be sure, to ascertain 
the nature of our little Red Books, and we 
found the following words in the title-page : — 
“Daily Food for Christians, being a promise 
and another scriptural portion for every day in 
the year, together with a verse of a hymn.” 

We were all pleased witli our papa’s present, 
but perhaps my pleasure rather consisted in 
the novelty and beauty of my little possession, 
than in its intrinsic merit; indeed, I had no 
idea at that time of the treasures and consola- 
tions contained in this little volume. 

From that time our little Red Books formed 
a part of our toilet apparatus ; they were laid 
on the right side of our looking-glass, whilst 
our dressing-boxes occupied the other, all be- 
ing neatly arranged on a linen cloth trimmed 
with white fringe, a quantity of which had been 

« * 


12 


THE RED BOOK. 


prepared by our great grandmother, long before 
any of us had been even thought of. 

There was a vast bustle about our daily por- 
tions during the first few days, and we repeat- 
ed them to each other as we were dressing and 
undressing; and I prided myself in being able 
to repeat them all from the beginning of the 
year, till about the middle of February, at 
which time my relative sent me a small parcel 
of ribbons and artificial flowers from Bath, and 
then I began to relax in my attentions to my 
little Red Book ; and as I had hitherto been 
the person who had made the most bustle 
about our daily portions, they were much less 
talked of, and seldomer repeated aloud in our 
rooms, though I could not help observing, that 
when my sisters were dressing, they were al- 
most invariably occupied by them, for they sel- 
dom talked on those occasions, and I could see 
their lips moving as if they were learning by 
heart. 

In the mean time, I had never felt the power 
of any of the texts or verses which I had 
learned, they had never touched my heart, al- 
though I possessed taste enough to discern the 
beauty of some of them ; but a discermnent of 


THE RED BOOK. 


13 


the beauty of scripture is quite a distinct thing 
from a sense and feeling of its power. The 
carnal mind is at enmity with God, it cannot 
discern the things of God ; and though I had 
been taught the doctrines of religion in their 
utmost purity from infancy, I was as blind to 
their real import as those who had never 
known any thing respecting them — in conse- 
quence, every verse or portion of scripture 
which spoke of the paternal love of our hea- 
venly Father for his chosen and redeemed 
ones, was to me as inexplicable as the darkest 
riddle ; and I remember particularly starting 
at the portion of scripture for the 15th of Jan- 
uary, viz : — “ There is, therefore, now no con- 
demnation to them which are in Christ Jesus, 
who walk not after the flesh, but after the 
Spirit.” — Romans viii. 1, with the following 
verse from a hymn : — 



“ Who shall the Lord’s elect condemn ? 

’Tis God that justifies their souls ; 
And mercy, like a mighty stream, 

O’er all thejf sins divinely rolls.” 


I even went so’#\r as to smile at the verse of 


the hymn (for I did not dare to laugh at the 
passage of scripture,) and to ask my eldest sis- 


B 


14 


THE RED BOOK. 


ter what sense there could be in mercy rolling 
over people’s sins. 

I remember well my sister’s answer ; “ As 
to those which are in Christ, Louisa,” she said, 
“they are those whom the Almighty has 
adopted for his own children, and we have this 
passage respecting them in scripture : ‘ Who 
shall lay any thing to the charge of God’s 
elect 1 it is God that justifieth.’ — Romans viii. 
38. And mercy,” she added, “is compared 
to a sea rolling over our sins, because mercy 
provides the means of washing or blotting them 
out by the blood of Christ, so that they shall 
not appear recorded against us ; and those who 
believe in the Lord Jesus Christ have their 
sins pardoned, and are passed from death unto 
life.” 

I was rather in awe of my eldest sister, not 
from any severity of manner in her, but be- 
cause I knew her to be strong in piety, ^ and, 
consequently, in good works ; and such cha- 
racters must ever be respected, even by the 
ungodly. I therefore did not venture any 
more comments in her hearing, and, indeed^ 
after the ribbons and dowers came from Bath, 
1 thought little more of my pretty Red Book. 
It lay on my toilet, indeed, in its usual place ; 


THE RED BOOK. 


15 


but I can safely assert, that from the end of 
j February till the beginning of April, I scarcely 
opened it once. And though I continually ran 
up from the parlour to fit and suit some caps I 
was making and adorning with the presents I 
had received, yet, I never once, as I can recol- 
lect, in all that time remembered my promise 
to my father, or so much as opened my book 
when I went to my toilet. 

On the 3d of April, however, one little cir- 
cumstance gave me some uneasy feelings on 
the subject of my little Red Book. 

I was at my toilet, dressing to go out to tea 
with my parents and two elder sisters, and my 
younger sisters, Anny and Sarah, were sitting 
at work on the ledge of the window near which 
my dressing-table stood. They had their little 
Red Books by them, and were examining each 
other on the portions they had learned from 
the beginning of the year. They did not 
address me, yet I could not but hear all they 
said to each other. 

It was one of those exquisitely lovely even- 
ings of spring, which convey to the mind the 
idea of that sort of temperature, which we 
may believe our first parents might have en- 
joyed in the bowers of Eden. 


ill 


16 


THE RED BOOK. 


The tender new leaves were scarcely agitat- 
ted by the balmy breath of the gentle breeze, 
the perfumes of opening flowers and blossoms 
rose up to the windows from the garden and 
orchard below, and the song of the birds, and 
the bleating of the more distant flocks, added 
their delights to this feast of the senses. “And 
now, Anny,” said Sarah, “repeat the verses 
for to-day.” Anny did as she was desired, 
“ He shall feed his flock like a shepherd, he 
shall gather the lambs with his arms, and carry 
them in his bosom.” — Isaiah xl. 11. 

When faint and trembling with alarms, 

O gather us within thine arms ; 

Kind Shepherd, on thy gracious breast 
The weakest lamb may safely rest.” 

“ I am the Good Shepherd ; the Good Shep- 
herd giveth his life for the sheep.” — John x. 1 1. 

“ There now,” said Sarah, with glee, “ there 
now, how nicely those verses come in to-day, 
how exactly they suit what we see before us ; 
look, Anny, look down into the valley, do you 
not see that beautiful field full of sheep and 
lambs. I can distinguish the lambs quite 
plainly, there are numbers of them ; and how 
green and fresh their field is ; and ihere are 


THE RED BOOK. 


17 


trees in blossom in the hedges ; and I dare say 
. that there are primroses and violets under those 
hedges. Well, now, does not that field help 
I you to think of the time when we shall all be 

gathered together by the good Shepherd, and ; 

I shall dwell quietly in the wilderness, and sleep 
in the woods? I am sure that this verse was 
i ^ chosen for April, the time of lambs, and flow- 
I ^ ' ers, and green fields, that people might see 
K these things and think of the good Shepherd ' 
whilst they are learning their verses.” ■ 

I I know not what more my little sisters said, 

for I Avas called down at that moment ; but 
I though I tried to be cheerful that evening, I - ] 
could not be so, for I felt vexed to think how ' 
much more faithfully my younger sisters had 
kept their promise to papa than I had done ; 
and I also felt, that they had already received 
their reward in the peace and happiness they 
enjoyed ; but these good thoughts soon passed ^ 
away. ) 

Soon after the events had taken place which 3 
I mentioned in the former part of my narra- 
tive, my father having been drenched in a 
, shower, and 'obliged to keep his wet clothes ji 
upon him for some hours, was seized with a >] 
shivering fit, which alarmed my mother very - 
B 2 


18 


THE RED BOOK. 


much, and though every care was taken, he 
continued so unwell as not to be able to leave 
his bed for several days. Whilst he still re- 
mained in this condition, my relative from Bath 
arrived at the neighbouring town. Hearing 
of my father’s illness, and having a weak feel- 
ing of dislike to enter a house where a person 
was unwell, she sent to request my company 
at the inn. She was on her road to Barmouth, 
and as soon as we met she set my spirits all in 
agitation, by saying that it was her intention 
to obtain permission from my parents to take 
me with her. 

I was perfectly aware that my. parents did 
not think the influence of my relative was be- 
neficial to me. 

They are lovers of simplicity, and have al- 
ways wished to bring up their children in it ; 
but my relative is a lover of the world, and 
hence their modes of thinking are utterly op- 
posed to hers, and hers to theirs. However, I 
did not despair of the effects of my relative’s 
earnest application, and I was not disap- 
pointed. My father gave an unwilling con- 
sent to my journey, and every hand was en- 
gaged in preparing my wardrobe. 

My clothes were packed up by my two 


THE RED BOOK. 


19 


elder sisters, my mother being engaged with 
my father. I handed the things to them as 
they knelt on the floor by the boxes, and I 
remember that amongst other things, I pre- 
sented my little Red Book, not that I cared 
Avhether I had it with me or not, but that I 
thought it would not look well to leave it be- 
hind me. 

“ Had you not better put that book into your 
pocket, Louisa!” said my eldest sister — ‘‘you 
will want it on the road — it will be several 
days before you can open your boxes.” “I 
forgot that circumstance,” I replied; “yes, it 
will be better to put the book into my pocket,” 
and to that repository it was accordingly com- 
mitted, and there it lay undisturbed till my 
pockets were changed at the end of the journey, 
when it was transferred from those 1 took off* 
to those I put on, and so on throughout the 
whole of my time at Barmouth. 

I was in hopes I should have seen my father 
a little better before I left home, but I had not 
that satisfaction ; he was in bed when I took 
leave of him on the morning of my departure, ' 
and he looked so very pale, that for a moment 
I almost wished that I had not united with my 
relative to obtain permission for my journey; 
but when I got into the coach, and saw new 


20 


THE RED BOOK. 


faces, and new scenes, I soon lost these tender 
feelings, and was wholly occupied with the 
anticipation of the pleasures I was to enjoy at 
the public place to which I was bound. 

Whoever has been at a public watering- 
place knows what a crowd of vanities burst 
upon the senses of those who first enter into 
such scenes. In these places' it often seems 
as if it were the sole business of life to dissipate 
time, to see and be seen, and to enjoy every 
folly as it passes. It is not well to be severe, 
yet surely it cannot be consistent with dying 
yet immortal creatures, to cultivate only those 
things which have a reference to this present 
life. Ought a traveller to settle himself so com- 
fortably at an inn as to forget his home, with 
all its domestic jo5^s and interesting duties 1 

During the first few days of our residence 
at Barmouth, I thought so much of the com- 
pany and the fashionsV'that I quite forgot the 
state of my poor father, and was therefore a 
good deal hurt when a letter came to tell me 
that he was no’ better. I soon, however, re- 
covered my spirits, and another fortnight 
passed, during which I had no letter. At 
length a lady who was at Barmouth, from our 
neighbourhood, called and informed me that 
she was about to return the next day, and 


THE RED BOOK. 


21 


would take me home if I wished to be present 
to assist my mother in nursing my father. I 
had several pleasant schemes in view at that 
time, and could not think of giving them up, 
and this was the more wicked in me, because 
my relative left it entirely to my choice to do 
as I liked. 

Tliat same evening I had a letter from my 
eldest sister, saying that my father continued 
very ill, and hinting, in a kind sisterly manner, 
that she thought it would please my parents 
much if I would return with our neighbour : 
but I was eager at that time in the pursuit of 
pleasure ; that is I was a lover of pleasure 
more than a lover of God. I paid no atten- 
tion to my sister’s hint, and let my neighbour 
depart without me, though I gave her a letter 
to carry to my mother, in which I tried to ex- 
cuse myself for my want of feeling, though 1 
had little to the purpose to say for myself. I 
did not, however, gain any thing by my un- 
dutiful conduct ; for two days afterwards, my 
relative was sent for home on a very mournful 
occasion, and after a melancholy and rapid 
journey, was obliged to hasten forwards with- 
out rest, after having delivered me over to the 
charge of the innkeeper’s wife in the town, 
which is near to my father’s house. 


22 


THE RED BOOK. 


It was BO late when I arrived at the town, 
that, I could not go home that night, I there- 
fore stayed for an hour or two at the inn, and 
very early in the morning having procured a 



porter to accompany me, and carry my lug- 
gage, I set out to walk home. It was so 
early that I met no one by the way, of whom I 
could ask any news of my father. Judge 
then, my reader, if you can, what I must have 
felt when, having knocked at the hail door, a 
servant looked out from the balcony, and ex- 
claimed, “O Miss! is it you? how unfortu- 
nate ! but you must not come in.” 

“Not come in,” I asked, “ what can be tlie 


"THE RED BOOK. 23 

y meaning of this ] and I thought of every thing 
that is horrible ; but as I do not wish to speak 
very largely of this part of my story, I shall in- 
form my readers, in a few Words, of the true 
state of the case. It seems that my father’s ill- 
ness, which had begun with a sort of languor 
and slight feverisltness, had ended in a decided 
putrid fever. This fever had spread its con- 
tagion to my two elder sisters, before it had 
been ascertained, and my little sisters had been 
preserved from the infection, only by having 
been sent out of the house to some distance. 
The servant also told me that my father was 
in great danger, and that my mother having 
been up all night, had just retired to get a 

■ little rest. Oh ! who can tell what I endured 
at that moment ? I begged, I entreated to be 
let in, that I might sec my father, and die with 
him. In my agony I endeavoured to force 
the door open, but the servant, who had been 
long in our family, entreated me to be more 
rational, and not to add to my mother’s misery, 
by rushing into danger. *j^he also pointed out 
what she thought it would be most adviseable 
for me to do. 

In a field of my father’s, at the bottom of 
his garden, is a neat cottage occupied by a 
respectable old woman and her daughter, 


24 


THE RED BOOK. 


This old woman is by profession a nurse, and 
was actually at that time in attendance on my 
father. Her daughter is a dressmaker, and a 
very respectable person, Avell known to us. 
The servant advised me to go to this cottage, 
and remain there till she could consult my 
mother respecting it. Oh’ it was with a 
heavy, heavy heart, that I turned away from 
my sorrowful home to seek a refuge in this 
cottage, from the cruel disease which threat- 
ened the life of several of those most dear 
to 'me. . 

Such, indeed, was my agony, that the por- 
ter who was with me carrying my trunk, 
could not refrain from trying to comfort me as 
we walked along; and one sentence which he 
dropped at (hat time was not without its in- 
fluence — “Miss,” he said, “ don’t be down- 
hearted, God is all-sufficient: you must pray 
to him, and he will have pity on you.” I 
continued to weep and sob till I reached the 
little wicket which opened into the cottage 
garden, and had not the porter helped me out, 
I should not for some time have been able to 
have explained to Mary Evans, the nurse’s 
daughter, the reason for my appearance at 
such an hour, with my trunks and with my 
dress all in disorder, for I had travelled, as I 


9 


25 


THE RED BOOK. 

before said, most part of the night. As soon, 
however, as the young woman understood my 
distress, she showed me every possible kindness, 
she put clean sheets on her bed, and made me 
lie down, for I was very much fatigued. She 
made me some tea, and brought it up to me ; 
after which she sat down by me with her 
needle, and I slept for several hours. But 
when I awoke and looked round me, and found 
myself in a cottage, instead of a gay lodging 
in a fashionable watering-place, and remem- 
bered too the reason for my being theVe, I felt 
almost as if my senses would have forsaken me. 
I sat up in bed, and cried and sobbed with 
violence, wringing my hands, and calling on 
my dear father. “ Oh papa, papa,” I exclaim- 
ed, ‘‘ O that I had never, never, left you ! How 
happy my sisters will be, even if they should 
die, for they were with you, dear papa, when 
1 was far away and then I insisted upon get- 
ting up, and going to inquire after my father. 

“ You must not go to the house. Miss,” said 
Mary Evans. “Think what your mother’s 
distress would be if you were to get the fever, 
and you would be more liable to get it than 
another, coming as you do out of the fresh airj 
if you will not promise me to keep at a dis- 
C 


26 


THE RED BOOK. 


tance from the house, I will go immediately 
and complain to your mother.” 

“I will promise, Mary, I will promise,” I 
answered; “but let me go to the rails which 
divide the field from the garden, and let me 
look at the house, and call to the gardener; 
I shall go distracted if you will not let me do 
that.” 

“To be sure I will. Miss,” said Mary, “ I 
would not add to your grief — -you have enough 
to bear;” and she helped me to dress, for I 
trembled so, that I could not put on my 
clothes; and when I was dressed, I went out, 
promising to return by one o’clock, when 
dinner was to be ready. And now, my dear 
reader, think what I must have felt, I who 
had been accustomed to be the indulged and 
happy member of a large and aflfectionate 
family ; who had but a few days past been 
moving about in gay scenes of fashion, and 
of earthly pleasure. What must have been 
the misery and horror of my condition, as I 
stepped out alone and unnoticed from the 
humble cottage, where I had been glad to 
find a refuge, and entered by a little wicket 
into the orchard which joined my father’s 
garden, being afraid at each step of meeting 


I 



THE RED BOOK. 27 

some one who might tell me that my father or 
my sisters were no more. 

The orchard is extensive, and is deeply 
shadowy in some places. A few benches 
were set here and there under the trees. I 
remembered scenes wliich had past in each of 
these places. There I had sat when a little 
child on my father’s knee — there I had been 
with my sisters engaged in dressing our dolls— 
there I had gone alone to learn my lessons — 
and there our mother had sat with her young 
ones around her to amuse them with such 
little tales as children love. But all these 
recollections only added to my anguish, and 
every object I beheld seemed only to make 
me more and more miserable. * 

At length I was seen from an upper window 
of my father’s house, as I stood leaning against 
the railing at the bottom of the garden, by 
the same servant who haa spoken to me in 
the morning, and the next minute she ap- 
peared in the garden, but stopped at some 
distance from me. “ How is my father, Su- 
san '1” said I. She hesitated a little, and then 
replied, “ Much the same. Miss.” 

“ He is worse,” I answered. I am sure he 
is worse.” 


28 THE RED BOOK 



No,” she replied, “no, I hope not, but he 
is very bad, I would not deceive you, dear 
Miss. There is nothing now to be doAe for 
him but to pray that he may be spared to his 
family ; but, dear Miss, you must not come 
nearer. Your mamma sends her kindest love 
to you, and begs you as you value her bless- 
ing not to come here. She is very sorry for 
you. She Avept when she heard you Avere re- 
turned, and she approved of Avliat I advised 
you to do; but you must not come a step 
nearer.” So saying, she turned aAvay, and I 
saAV that she Avas Aveeping. I dropped on the 



THE RED BOOK. 


29 


grass at the moment Susan turned from me, 
and I think that for some seconds, I must have 
quite lost my recollection, for I can remember, 
as I came to myself, that all the objects in the 
orchard seemed to be reversed, and that it was 
some time before they appeared to settle again 
into their places. A violent burst of tears 
then relieved me, and I continued to weep for a 
length of time. Now it so happened, that 
as I was drawing out my handkerchief from 
my pocket, to wipe away my tears, that my 
lohg-negle'cted little Red Book came out with 
it, and fell at my feet. 

It is written, “ Cast thy bread upon the 
waters, and after many days thou shalt find 
it.” My father had done this, and it was at 
at this*time that his act of faith was to receive 
its reward. My eyes, as I wiped the tears from 
them,^ell upon my bot>k, and at the same time 
a tenoer and sweet recollection presented itself 
of the day and hour, and paternal manner, in 
which that book had been given to me ; and 
with these recollections, came (I think I may 
venture to say) the first truly gracious expe- 
rience of contrition I had ever known ; from 
that instant a sort of child-like feeling of sor- 
row for my past hardness and selfishness was 
shed over my mind, and I began to see that all 
C 2 


30 


THE RED BOOK. 


I now suffered was no more than I liad de- 
served from my niidntiful and unfeeling con- 
duct towards my parents. And whereas, a 
moment before I had thought myself the most 
unfortunate of human beings, I now began to see 
that I had been dealt most mercifully with, in 
having (against my inclijiations) been brouglit 
so near my parents, that I could hear hourly 
of my father’s state of health, and look at the 
house which contained him, instead of being 
obliged to wait in cruel suspense at Barmouth, 
for the coming in of the post every four-and- 
twenty hours. 

In this, I trust, improved state of mind, I 
took up my little book, resolving to make it my 
friend and counsellor, and opening it casually, 
I found this passage. May 14ih : — 

“ He hath not despised nor abhorred the af- 
llictiori of the afflicted.” — Psalm xxii. 

“ Afflictions, though they seem severe, . V 

In mercy oft are sent ; 

They stopt the prodigal’s career, 

And forc’d him to repent.”, 

“Despise not the chastening of the Lord, 
neither be weary of his correction ; for whom 
the Lord lovcth, he correcteth, even as a father 




THE RED BOOK. 


31 


the son in whom he delightetii.” — Prov. iii. 


M, 12. 



And is it possible, I thought, that all these . 


trials have been brought upon me to bring me 
to that which is-right; and does my God love 
j me, notwithstanding my pride and ray rebel- 
lion ! and I fell on my knees, and if I mistake 
not poured forth my whole soul in a prayer 
which denoted a contrite and a truly child-like 
spirit. 

Although I had heard no good news, yet my 
n^id was assuredly in a less miserable state 
when I returned to the cottage to dinner, than it 
had been in when I left it. Yet I had that in- 


32 


THE RED BOOK. 


tolerable anxiety and restlessness upon me, that 
I had scarcely tasted what had been provided 
for me, before I again returned to the orchard 
to watch for any one who could give me infor- 
mation. My mother, I found afterwards, could 
not bring herself to see me ; but the gardener 
spoke to me, and tried to comfort me, although 
he had no good news to tell me, for my sisters 
were worse, and my father no better ; and as 
I still lingered in the orchard, the nurse came 
out to me towards sunset, and begged me to 
return to the cottage, assuring me that I should 
become ill if I exposed myself to the night air. 
Neither did I get any comfort from this second 
messenger, but during the whole of that long 
evening I had from time to time been consult- 
ing my little Red Book, and had been particu- 
larly struck by some passages which I had 
found, referring to the month of August. 
Among them I may mention August 18. 

“ Commit thy way unto the Lord ; trust also 
in Him, and he shall bring it to pass.” — Psalm 
xxxvii. 5. 

“ All my times shall ever be 
Ordered by thy wise decree ; 

Times of sickness, times of health, « 

Times of penury and wealth, 

Times of trial and of grief. 

Times of triumph and relief.” 


THE RED BOOK. 


O Lord, I know that the way of man is 
not in himself ; it is notin man that walketh to 
direct his steps.” — Jer. x. 23. 

In meditating on these passages, I had been 
strongly impressed with the duty of acqui- 
escence in the- divine will, and in consequence, 
when the nurse admonished me to leave the 
orchard, I answered not a word, but returned 
to the cottage, with my little Red Book in my 
hand, and actually fell asleep repeating the 
texts I had learned in the orchard. Little then 
did I think how near relief was at hand, and 
how very soon I should be set free from that 
horrible suspense in which I had lingered for 
the last twelve hours. During that night I 
was taken ill with a complaint in the head, by 
which I was so entirely deprived of my recol- 
lection, that many days, nay, some weeks 
passed without my being able to remember any 
thing that took place. 

My life was long despaired of ; but at length 
my disorder took a favourable turn, and after 
a long and deep sleep, I opened my eyes, and 
found my father sitting on one side of me, and 
my mother on the other ; and, in a few days, . 
I was conveyed from the friendly cottage to 
my happy home. Since that period, all my 
sisters have been united with me in the ten- 


THE RED BOOK. 


34 

derest bonds of affection, being made of one 
heart, and one mind with me. Neither have 
we ever since oar restoration to health, omitted 
the daily study of that little Red Book, which 
was my sole guide and counsellor in the hour 
of my deepest dishess. | 


i 

i 




MARY ANNE. 






t. 


T II E S T O E Y 


ov 



I AM now very mncli advanced in age, — iny 
eyes are dim, — my face is wrinlded, — I have 
few teeth left, — and my mouth is fallen in. 


D 

. 1 ' 





\ 


h 

r: 








38 


Tlirougti the infinite goodness of Almighty 
God I do not suffer pain ; but my limbs trem-' 
hie, and I can with difiicully walk to the bottom 
of my small garden, or stoop to gather a 
flower from the little plot once belonging to my 
beloved Mary Anne. I can scarcely now see 
to read a chapter in a Bible of the largest 
print, with my glasses on ; and, added to all 
these infirmities, I possess a very small portion 
of worldly goods, and have no one to wait 
upon me but a little orphan girl, who, being 
left upon the parish, and quite friendless, was 
glad of such a home as I could give her, on 
condition that she should give me such assist- 
ance as a child of nine years old might be able 
to afford. From this account, I suppose my 
young readers are already persuaded that I 
must be a very unhappy creature, being so 
destitute, helpless, and poor, as I have de- 
scribed myself to be ; and perhaps, they would 
hardly believe me, when I assure them, that j 
there is not one amongst them with whopi I ] 
w^ould change places, for my journey is nearly I 
finished, wdiilst theii’s is hardly begun. And, I 
though there is not one action of my life 
w'hich has not been in some degree infected by j 
sin, yet I have an assured hope of happiness f! 


1 


39 


in the world to come, through the sufiferliigs 
and merits of that precious Son of God, who 
laid down his life for me, and for all sucli as 
through grace have been brought to piece their 
dependence on him. But I have said enough, 
and, perhaps, too much, already of myself. It 
was with the view of giv^in^ my young friends 
some account of my beloved Mary Anne that 
I took up my pen, and I must not be diverted 
from this object by entering into my own 
affairs any farther than may be necessary for 
this purpose. 

It little matters who were my paients, or 
what was my husband, or bow many were my 
children ; it is sufficient to say, tliat I have 
long survived all those whom I loved, and by 
whom I was beloved in the earlier periods of 
my life ; and though I entertain the delightful 
assurance, that one and all of these are now in 
glory, yet I will forbear to expatiate on their 
histories, or even to recall the names of those 
whose memories are engraven for ever on my 
heart. 

At former period of life, my condition was 
superior to that of the lower classes, and what 
miglit, in fact, have been not improperly deno- 
minated genteel ; yet at the age of sixty, after 


40 


iKivin’g experienced various reverses, I Ava« 
thankful to find a refuge in a cottage, where I i 
bad only a sufficient income to free me from ! 
the necessity of servile labour. I did not 
count my little domestic duties, as long as my i 
strength enabled me to perform them without j 
fatigue, otherwise than pleasing and healthy 
occupations, which varied the sameness of my 
days, and rendered my rest more sweet. My 
cottage, too, was a sweet resting-place, stand- i 
ing on the corner of a wood which seldom heard 
the axe, and so little removed from a place of ' 
worship, that an easy walk of t^venty minutes 
would always bring me to it, as well as to a 
little village where I could purchase all that j 
was necessary for my support. My house is !i 
surrounded by a small garden, richly adorned 
in the season of flowers, and well stored ^\dth 
fruit-trees ; through this garden runs a clear 
stream, the murmurs of which, when I sit at 
my door, in a summer’s day, mingled with the 
hum of bees, the song of birds, and the rustling 
of the leaves in the neighbouring woods, pro- 
duce a harmony which can scarcely be equalled 
by any thing which human art can produce. 

I have four rooms in m}^ house : a neat 
kitchen, a large pantry or store-room, and two 
sleeping apartments. My kitchen is, for the 


1 


41 


i itiost { r'rt furnished in the humblest manner; 
yet, amidst the wreck of my property, I have 
been enabled to preserve a clock, which was 
my grandfather’s ; my little mahogany tea- 
> table, with its carved border, which belonged 
to my mother ; my chest of drawers and book- 
case, some few of my best I books, and an easy 
chair, which last has lately been a great com- 
fort to me. My bed-ehamber is also suitably 
furnished : and there over my chimney-piece, 
I have the likenesses of all my children. 

Immediately from the door of my house to 
my gate is a narrow walk, bordered on each 
side with a bed of flowers ; there, in the spring, 
are daffodils, crocusses, and snow drops ; and, 
in the summer, pinks, pansies, carnations, and 
roses, with southernwood and wall -flowers. 
The rest of my garden is devoted to useful 
vegetables ; and an old neighbour keeps it in 
order for me, on condition that he should have 
one-half of what the land produces. 

Such was the habitation which was pro- 
vided for me in my sixtieth year; a most 
sweet and peaceful abode, where being sepa- 
rated from the world, I have known much 
happiness, though not without some mixture 
of those things which are afflictive to flesh 
and blood. 

D2 


42 


fn my eixty-first year I was deprived, by 
death, of the last of iny children; and, at this 
time, my only surviving grandchild, my ever- 
beloved and lovely Mary Anne, being an 
orphan, was laid in my bosom, then an infant 
of three years of age. This little creature was 
exeedingly beautiful in appearance, being fair 
as the fairest lily, and having features and 
eyes of a rare and singular softness of expres- 
sion. She was brought to me by a relation of 
her father, a person of harsh and unbending 
manners ; who at tlie same time that she Avas 
delivered to me, told me, that altliough there 
was nothing now remaining for her su})port, 
yet that there Avas a considerable sum of 
money Avhich AA^ould come to her at tlic deatli 
of a distant relation, of Aviiich she could not be 
deprived ; and, as this relation Avas more ad- 
vanced in years than myself, it Avas con- 
jectured that she might probably come into 
possession of this property before my death. 
The severe person Avho brought her to jue also 
stated, that he Avould endeavour to procure a 
little money from this relation to put Jier to 
school, Avhen she Avas of a proper age ; and he 
also let me know that, as tlie father of tlie 
child had left him in poAA^er to act for his 
daughter, he hoped that I AA'^oiild not attempt 


43 


to dispute his wishes respecting her, when it 
should be judged convenient to put her to 
school. 

“ For the present, sir, and for some years to 
come, I can instruct her,” I answered, looking 
with feelings of inexpressible tenderness on 
theUittle forlorn one, who stood at the knee of 
the stranger who had brought her to my 


f 


house, yet not daring to display the strength 
of my feelings in his presence. At length he 
arose and departed ; and no sooner did my 
garden-gate close upon him than I caught up 
tlie Ijaby in my arms, and wept till her fair 



44 


neck, over which I hung, was moistened with 
many tears. 

Ah ! little Mary Anne, how blessed did I 
think myself when I enjoyed the presence of 
my child. I had known many bereavements; 
I had closed the eyes of several of my chil- 
dren ; I had parted with them at all ages, 
having carried some from the cradle to the 
coffin, and seen others fade away in the bloom 
of advanced youth ; but it seemed to ine that 
1 had recovered all I had lost in my little Mary 
Anne, and that I saw united in her all that had 
ever seemed delightful in the halves whose en- 
chanting smiles had once composed my most 
precious earthly treasure. 

The little one was, however, terrified at first 
when left with me, and my emotions but in- 
creased her alarm ; at length, however, I 
became composed, and then I tried to soothe 
and calm her. I got up, with her in my arms, 
I showed her my clock, and the moon and sun 
upon its face ; I called my cat, and made her 
stroke it ; and I took her into my pantry, and 
gave her milk and bread and butter ; but she 
uttered not one word, not one single word, 
and, as it was late, I undressed her, and went 
to bed with her myself. 

Oh ! what did I feel when I took off her 


45 


black drees, and saw her little dimpled limbs 
and fair arms and shoulders ; and when I lay 
down with her in my arms, what my feelings 
were I could not pretend to describe. It was 
then that all the past seemed present i6 me, 
and I seemed to live over again the days that 
were gone by, when my children were about 
me, and my husband and parents were with 
me. It was an autumn night, and the wind 
whistled and sighed amidst the leafless woods. 
Who has ever heard the meanings of the 
winds, and its various notes of deep complaint, 
without some experience of melancholy feel- 
ings ? He that lives longest but multiplies 
the greatest number of sad associations. And 
what has such mighty power to renew these 
associations as musical and plaintive sounds J 
Througli the divine mercy, deeply as I had 
been made to feel the inevitable afflictions of 
this present life, I was not without much com- 
fort. It had pleased the Almighty to reveal 
himself to my .mind, not merely with an indis- 
tinct light, but by a revelation so clear, that I 
had no other confidence but in the love of the 
Father, in justification by the Bon, and sancti- 
fication by the Holy Ghost. In one word, I 
depended wliolly on the eternal Trinity, that 
the grace of final perseverance and the benefits 


46 


of everlasting life, would be bestowed on me, 
as I was assured that they already had been 
on all those with whom I had been allied in 
early life, though not through any human 
works and merits. Having this confidence, I 
might indeed, sometimes feel tlie sadness which 
is occasioned by an absence from the home we 
desire, but never could be said to have been at 
any time without consolation ; and, indeed, at 
the period I speak of, I was particularly sensi- 
ble of the goodness of God, in placing, for a 
while, my infant grand-daughter under my 
care ; and with these feelings I soon fell 
asleep. I slept long, and it was perfectly 
light when I awoke, being roused by an infant 
voice singing, ‘‘ Bye-bye baby, sleep little 
baby,” in accents of inexpressible melody. I 
turned in haste towards the sound, and saw 
my little grand-daughter, sitting on the bolster, 
in her night-dress, having rolled up her petti- 
coat into something which she was fancying 
to be a child, and holding it to her white bosom 
as she had seen nurses do with an infant. 

I looked at this lovely little creature for some 
moments without speaking, not being willing 
to disturb the charming serenity of her sweet 
countenance, by reminding her that she was 
with one whom she still, I feared, looked upon 


as a stranger ; and when, at length, I spoke, 
she dropped her baby, her lip trembled, and 
she began to cry. I, however, soon found 
means to re-assure her ; and, before night, we 
were the best possible friends. From that 
period, for several years, I experienced a de- 
gree of happiness which few enjoy on earth. 
The course of our life passed away as the 
stream of a brook along a smooth descent, 
reflecting, in its course, the flowers on its 
banks, and the glories of the heavens above. 
In the mean time, my lovely Mary Anne grew 
like a lily beneath the shadow of a rock, which 
gradually shoots up in height, expands her 
snow^y petals, and breathes balmy odours. 

It is impossible for me to ascertain the time 
when the work of regeneration commenced 
with this child, and the more so as her natural 
disposition was amiable, and in very early life 
she was absolutely exempted from temptations 
from without, being constantly with me, and 
having no farther intercourse with her fehow- 
creatures than that which took place in my pre- 
sence. Under such circums(ances the actual 
work of grace is hard to discern, and therefore 
I dare not decide that it did commence with 
Mary Anne at a very early period of her life ; 
though the blameless coinse of her conduct, 


48 


her purity, simplicity, cheerfulness, and mo- 
desty, seemed to indicate that she was sought 
of Him, whom she had otherwise never known, 
even during the earliest years of infancy. 
When, in the spring, we behold a tender sap- 
ling bursting forth with fragrant blossoms, and 
bearing, if it be only one sample of delicious 
fruit, can we dou^t that the stock is good '? 
So neither can there be a question amongst 
those who know that the wilderness of this 
world produces only thorns and briers, wild 
olives and fruitless trees, that such a little tree 
must be of the same kind as those plants 
which flourish within the garden of Eden. 

During the period of my sweet child’s in- 
fancy, she was like a little ewe-lamb nourish- 
ed in my bosom, being spotless in her fleece, 
harmless, meek, and playful, and having her 
gentle eye ever turned upwards to watch my 
steps and mark my pleasure. Her dress was 
always not only plain, but coarse and humble, 
yet her carriage was ever graceful, her man- 
ners courteous, and her habits free from rude- 
ness and vulgarity. Coarseness is not neces- 
sarily connected with poverty, though it is too 
often found together with it. It arises from 
those sinful dispositions, which politeness re- 
quires the higher ranks of society to conceal j 


49 


whereas, no such restraint is tl^ught neces- 
sary amongst the lower classes of society. 
Hence a wicked man in high life may look 
upon one equally wicked amongst his inferiors, 
and see his own character represented without 
cloak or veil; and hence he might learn to 
detest that deformity which is thus hateful 
without a covering. Where no bad passions 
rule there can be no real coarseness; and 
where graces reign there must be elegance, 
whether they hold their dominion in a palace 
or a cottage. 

When Mary Anne was seven years of age, 
the excellent lady to whom my cottage be- 
longed, and in the corner of whose park my 
little residence was situated, came down from 
London to reside in her mansion in the country, 
at about half a mile’s distance from my cottage. 
She had lately become a widow, and married 
her eldest daughter, and was now come to 
spend the remainder of her life in retirement 
having two fair young daughters with her. 

She had not been long at her mansion be- 
fore she honoured my humble roof with a visit, 
and then, understanding the history of my 
little grand-daughter, and that she had the 
prospect, nay, humanly speaking, the assur- 
ance of a good fortune, she most kindly under- 


60 


took to carry on her education farther than I 
was able to do ; for I could only teach her to 
read and write, and use her needle. For this 
purpose, she requested that my dear child 
might come to her everyday, when the weather 
would permit, and kindly gave her a neat as- 
sortment of printed linen frocks, with white 
bonnets and tippets, and a little cloak of scar- 
let cloth to wear on colder days ; hence the 
younger ladies used to call her “ the little 
Red Ridinghood and it was my prayer that 
no wolf, whether spiritual or natural, should 
traverse the path of my “ little Red Ridings 
hood:^ 

The way from my cottage to the mansion 
led, for the most part, beneath a long avenue 
of oaks, excepting in one place, where it 
opened into a glade, through the bottom 
which ran the same sweet stream which bathe 
the roots of the waterplants with which I ha 
adorned my garden. It was a charming morr 
ing in May, when I set out to conduct m; 
Mary Anne, for the first time, to the hous- 
of her patroness. With what delight had 
that day dressed my little lovely one in he 
new frock, printed all over with the leaves am 
berries of the strawberry, and put her whit* 
bonnet over her glossy ringlets of dark browi 


51 


hair; and how joyfully did we step forth, 
whilst my little one, bearing a neat basket 
which had been provided for her, sometimes 
amused me witli lier innocent prattle, and 
sometimes hearkened to the instructions which 
I endeavoured to infuse into her mind, in as 
easy a manner as possible, and as circum- 
stances seemed to prompt. 

We saw no creatures during our progress, 
but harts and hinds, and little fawns, with a 
few wild doves and rooks, which harboured bn 
the loftiest branches of the avenue. The glade 
above mentioned, was about half-way of our 
path, and there was an ancient circular hut 
or root- house, where I afterwards accustomed 
myself to go often with my work, and await 
the return of my child. Here, also, on this 
her first visit to her excellent instructress, we 
stopped and sate awhile ; and whilst we 
watched the deer and observed the waterfall 
sparkling amid tlie dark foliage of the neigh- 
bouring thickets, I took occasion to speak to her 
of the goodness of God, who, by providing such 
a teacher for her, might prevent the necessity 
of her being separated so soon from me. I 
then proceeded to point out the love of the 
Saviour for liis people, which is compared in 
Scripture to that of the hart to the tender hind : 


* 


52 


— Until the day break and the shadows flee 
away, turn my beloved, and be thou like a roe 
or a young hart upon the mountain of sepa- 
ration.” — Cant. ii. 17. And you, my beloved 
one, I added, are like one of those little fawns, 
playing by the side of its mother, tender, 
young, and helpless ; but, be not afraid, your 
heavenly Father w^ll take care of you. 

From that perio9, for four whole happy 
years, my little fair one went every fine day to 
her kind instructress ; and in that time, with- 
out losing aught of her simplicity and humility 
she acquired much valuable instruction; and 
her guardian, who was an upright though 
severe man, being perfectly satisfied with her 
improvements, in consequence made no at- 
tempt to remove her. 

Thus were four additional years of happiness 
secured to me ; and what, because that season 
of enjoyment is now passed, shall I cease to 
be thankful for it? The Almighty promises 
the believer perfect happiness in the world to 
come, but he gives us no assurance of com- 
plete happiness in the present life. Peace, 
indeed, Christ promises us, but peace supposes 
that there has been some disquietude, or that 
there is an apprehension of pain ; and if he 
sometimes adds a considerable degree of happi- 


53 


ness, it is not (to speak somewhat familiarly) 
more than the bargain T and yet are we not 
ready to complain when even this is not always 
added to us ? 

But I enjoyed four sweet years, though of 
those years I have little to tell. The story of 
a serene summer’s day is soon told : the morn- 
ing mist, the mid-day sun-shine, and the even- 
ing shade, are soon described. During this 
blessed interval, I can remember little dis- 
tinctly, but some precious seasons, when sit- 
ting in the root-house above mentioned, I used 
to meditate deeply on divine things, whilst 
watching the appearance of nty little beloved 
one from the farther end of the avenue. Even 
now I can sit in that place and fancy I see 
her, arrayed in her linen frock and white 
bonnet, bearing her basket on her arm, and 
coming forward with the quick uneven step of 
buoyant youth. 

At length this happy period terminated ; the 
excellent lady who had undertaken the in- 
struction of my child died suddenly, her family 
left the mansion, and my grand-daughter’s 
guardian, having scarcely given us time to 
wipe away our tears, insisted on placing my 
,child as half-boarder at a school at some dis- 
tance, where he engaged that she should have 


54 


every advantage of instruction enjoyed by the 
full pensioners. 

This was a distressing time for me ; for my 
soul was even then like that of a child when 
weaning. Yet are not these seasons often 
blessed to us ] I was then, indeed, sepa- 
rated from all that was dear on earth to me. 
No longer did I see the blue smoke of the 
mansion-house curling over the high woods ; 
— no longer did 1 expect the daily return of 
my little charmer to my humble dwelling : I 
was without human comfort, and for some 
time yielded only to depression of spirits. I 
could not at first see the hand of God in these 
dispensations; I could see only the handy- 
work of the creature, and I was disposed to 
murmur ; but a better spirit was afterwards 
given to me, though as yet I could hardly say, 
‘‘Thy will, O God, be done.” 

Another year passed away, and I heard 
little from Mary Anne ; her letters were short, 
and not satisfactory. At length I procured a 
poor neighbour, who was travelling that way, 
to call upon her ; and, on her return, I was 
made to understand that the terms of the en- 
gagement had not been kept with my grand- 
daughter, and that, instead of receiving •- - 
stmction, my child was neither more nor less 


55 


than a household drudge in her present situa- 
tion. I expected that she would have some 
offices to perform, not common to her school- 
fellows, and could have had no objection; but 
when assured that her whole time was taken 
up with these emplo)rments, and her educa- 
tion, as far as concerned all literary acquire- 
ments, entirely at an end, I became justly 
dissatisfied, and was almost ready again to 
break out into murmurs : but the evil was 
inevitable. I expostulated with my child’s 
guardian, and he chose to treat me as a doting 
and over-indulgent old woman. To submit, 
then, was my duty, and to trust that the God 
of all the earth was doing all things for the 
best ; but my faith was insufficient for me, and 
I could not submit to the divine will. 

At the end, however, of two years, Mary 
Anne’s relation declined paying any longer for 
her schooling, and my beloved child was sent 
back to me. She was then just thirteen ; and 
when she entered the cottage and ran into my 
arms, I was astonished at her growth, and the 
extraordinary improvement of her general ap- 
pearance, for she was a rare example of per- 
sonal loveliness ; and the expression of her 
countenance, when I had leisure to contem- 


5G 


plate it, was indicative of those graces which 
no liuihan etfoil can bestow. 



I fear, my Mary Anne, I said, that you have 
been ill-used at school. 


No, she replied, by no means. I have en- 
joyed food and rest, and learnt many things 
which may be useful, though not, perhaps, ex- 
actly the sort of things for which I was parted 
from you. But I can make pies, now, grand- 
mamma, and mend stockings, and clean rooms, 
and make up beds, and boil sweetmeats, and 
mix medicines, and patch old linen, and iron, 


57 


and plait, and clear starch ; for I was resolved, 
since I had no time for my books, that I would 
learn what I could, and make the best of every 
advantage. 

And who, my sweet child, I answered, not 
without some self-reproach, who inspired you 
with this notion? 

Who? she replied; I hardly know: but I 
had time to learn some hymns, and some little 
portions of Scripture ; and thus was I taught 
that I ought to submit cheerfully to all that my 
God appointed. And then I was led to feel 
that God knew best what was good for me<, 
and that, perhaps, I might profit more in the 
situation in which I then was, than if I had 
been allowed to dance, and play, and dress 
with my school -fellows ; for we know not, 
grand-mamma, what we are intended for ; but 
God knows it: and therefore we cannot do 
better than submit to his will. 

Whence was this wisdom in this young 
creature ? surely not from the suggestions of 
her own heart ? 

Whilst my beloved thus spoke to me, strong 
and deep convictions flushed upon my mind, 
and I was, from tliat moment, enabled to 
place my child in the hands of God, feeling 


58 


that he was indeed engaged for her good , 
and that the very measures which I had 
dreaded, had so worked for her advantage, 
that she had returned to me in a state of 
mind so blessed, that no acquired accomplish- 
ments could, in any degree, liave been put in 
^ competition with the benefits which God had 
conferred on her, by means which appeared so 
unpromising to the view of sense. 

My sweet child’s conduct, from the time 
she returned, fully answered to the hopes ex- 
cited at the inoment of her arrival. She had 
lost none of her former modesty and gTaceful- 
ness, which had been improved in the house 
of her deceased benefactress, but her hu- 
mility and her neat handedness had greatly 
increased, as I had occasion shortly after- 
wards to experience. For being taken severe- 
ly ill with a rheumatic fever, this lovely young 
creature watched me night and day, and per- 
formed e . ery office for me which the most ex- 
perienced nurse could have done, being ever 
ready and ever prepared to soothe and to as- 
sist me ; sometimes bolding my achii^.g head 
for hours against her blameless breast, (blame- 
less through the influence of sanctifying grace,) 
and, when I was able to attend to them, prov- 


59 


ing her piety by selecting many appropriate 
portions of Scripture to read to me, and guid- 



ing my mind, which had wandered through the 
force of illness, back to that precious Saviour? 
upon A^jhom the attention of sinners ought 
perpetually to be fixed. 

Ah! my Mary Anne! when I remember 
those scenes I can no longer restrain the 
sources of natural sorrow, and it again be- 
comes difficult for me to say, — My God, thy 
will be done.” 

In the midst of all this, some little childish 
caprices would mingle themselves in her con- 


60 


duct, and remind me pathetically of her ten- 
der years, for she was not then fourteen. 
On the happy morning, after I had become 
decidedly better, she appeared with a garland 
of roses round her head, as an indication of 
her happiness ; and she must needs dress the 
flower-pots on the chimney with heart’s-ease. 

At length I was entirely recovered, and 
able, as it was summer-time, to pay several 
visits with my beloved to the favourite root- 
house, where she used to read and sing to me 
and to converse on the love of Christ in dying 
on the cross for the ungodly. My Bible is still 
turned down in the place where she last read 
to me in that sweet spot. 

Thus passed away the summer, the last 
happy summer, and autumn came to rob the 
woods of their green mantles, and then chill 
winter ; a winter it was indeed to me, which 
shut up all my earthly hopes. Towards 
Christmas my child began to languish, the 
roses faded from [her cheeks, and the ver- 
milion from her lips. This change at first 
seemed to take place without an apparent 
cause 5 but soon she began to cough, to breathe 
short, and to experience seasons of hectic heat. 

I do not attempt to describe what I felt. All 
my children, who had attained to any age, had 


61 


shown the same symptoms before death ; and 
my excessive and terrible apprehensions almost 
deprived me of the power of procuring that as- 
sistance for my darling which her situation 
seemed to demand. At length I could no 
longer conceal my uneasiness from the object 
of it ; and I one day said, My Mary Anne, 
should I lose you, I should be miserable in- 
deed.” “No grand-mamma, she answered, not 
miserable, only bereaved, solitary, alone ; rea- 
dy to depart, and waiting; waiting for your 
own call; and rejoicing that all you love were 
arrived safely in the land which is very far off, 
where they shall for ever see that Saviour 
whom they loved on earth.” 

“But, my love,” I said, “have you any ap- 
prehension] do you think ” and I could 

say no more. 

“I have no fears,” she answered, calmly; 
“ but I do know that I am going. I feel that 
within me which speaks of death, or rather, 
I mean, of a very long sleep; and I have no 
dread, for I know that my Redeemer liveth; 
and yet, for your sake — ” and she seized my 
hand, and laid her face upon it,— “ for your 
sake, grand-mamma, I could have wished — ” 
she hesitated — “ I could have wished to live 
a little longer.” I felt her tears on my hand, 
but could not speak. She was sitting on a low 


stool at my knee : she looked up, — her sweet 
face was flushed, — ^but there was an inexpressi- 
ble tenderness in her gentle eye. ‘‘ Only think 
how good our God has been to us ; how did he 
prepare me for this change, by the humble and 
even solitary life I led at school, where I spent 
most of my hours alone, and had no compa- 
nion but my Bible and my Hymn-book ; and 
since that time by the scenes of your illness 
and suffering. Ah! grand-mamma, had we 
the management of these things, I should have 
been one of the first and best dressed girls in 
the school, and you would never have been 
raised from that long sad illness.’’ 

What could I answer to all this? I was 
dumb, and ready to lay my mouth in the dust. 

It was spring again before the illness of my 
child had arrived at such a formidable height as 
to compel her to take to her bed; and during 
that period I had some short intervals of hope. 

Three days before her death the two amia- 
ble daughters of her former instructress came 
to the Hall, and hearing of my beloved child’s 
state, came to my cottage; and from that 
period she was attended by one of these sweet 
sisters, till her redeemed soul departed to be 
with Christ. 

She died on a Sunday evening ; and in the 
morning of that day seemed scarcely sensible 


63 


of what she said. Whether it was that the 
disease had weakened her judgment and ex- 
cited her iin agio at ion, or that certain views of 
another world were vouchsafed to her soul, on 
the wing as it was for flight, temporal and 
eternal things were so mingled in her fancy, 
that she had no power to express the ideas of 
either in a^Jistinct manner. 

Her window was open, and she caught the 
sound of the village-bells no doubt, for she 
said, “ Sunday is it — ihe day of our Lord 1 It 
will be my day of deliverance, — the beginning 
of a new life, — a new state of being.” She 
then looked tip at one of the young ladies, 
and said, “ Fetch me some flowers, dear lady, 
and prepare my bed: I shall rest sweetly,” 
On the lady not moving, she seemed rather 
impatient, and repeated, “ Pray fetch me some 
flowers, and prepare my resting-phice.^’ 

Let us indulge her, said the young lady to 
an old woman from the village who was in 
the room; but whilst the old woman was 
absent, she dropped her eye-lids and seemed 
to sleep. The flowers were presented to her 
when she opened her eyes, and she smiled, 
and looked pleased. 

The rose of Sharon,^’ she said, and the 
lily of the valley ; the lily is broken, indeed, 


64 


but it will revive again. Scatter the flowers 
on my bed : but no,’^ she added, “ not on this 
bed, but on the other bed, for this is not my 
resting-place ; the flowers of paradise will 
languish here.^^ 

During the day my sweet child said many 
things, though not in so connected a way as 
the above, but all indicative of an enlightened 
mind, taught by the Spirit of God, and of a 
state of child-like and entire confidence in her 



blessed Saviour. About rmci-day she ex- 
pressly called for me, and desired to have her 
head raised and laid on my bosom, and in this 


65 


posture she breathed her last, leaving me 
with one only feeling, and that was a longing 
desire for the blessed period when we should 
be united again in Christ. 

The flowers she had caused to be gathered 
were laid in her coffin, and the young ladies, 
who arranged them with their own hands, 
shed many tears while thus engaged. True, 
indeed, are the descriptions which the Scrip- 
tures give us of the frailty of man, yet how 
often we read them without feeling their 
truth ! “ Man that is born of a woman is of 
few days, and full of trouble; He cometh 
forth like a flower, and is cut down : he fleeth 
also as a shadow, and continueth not.” Job 
xiv. 1, 2 . 

In the village church-yard the dear young la- 
dies, whom I mentioned, have erected a tomb, 
beneath a weeping willow, on which they have 
inscribed the name of 


Time has softened the acuteness of my 
sorrow, and I am now able to think less 
of the past and more of the future. And 
whereas I find my Saviour ever mingled in 
my views of futurity, and ever presenting 
F2 ■ 



66 


himself to my soul under his various charac- 
ters of father, brother, husband, and friend; 
there will be no doubt remaining in the mind 
of my believing reader, that though bereaved 
I am not destitute, — though poor, I have 
more than I want, — though under tribulation, 
I am full of joy. 

And now, my youthful reader, if the charac- 
ter of my lovely Mary Anne has proved ad- 
mirable in your sight, let me beg you earnestly 
to seek that divine influence, by which alone 
your heart can be changed, — apply by faith to 
the blood of Christ, which alone can pardon 
your sins and sanctify your affections ; and 
then, whatever your situation in life, or what- 
ever disappointments you may experience, the 
consolations of the Holy Spirit and the charms 
of piety will be added to the external graces 
and embellishments of youth. 







HYMN, 


The morning flowers display their sweets. 
And gay their silken leaves unfold, 

As careless of the noon-tide heai)s. 

And fearless of the evening cold. 

Nipt by the wind’s unkindly blast, 

Parcli’d by the sun’s directer ray, 

The momentary glories waste. 

The short liv’d beauties die away. 

So blooms the human face divine, 

When youth its pride of beauty shows ; 
Fairer than spring the colours shine, 

And sweeter than the virgin-rose. 

Or, W’orn by slowly-rolling years. 

Or, broke by sickness, in a day 
The fading glory disappears, 

The short liv’d beauties die away. 


69 


Let sickness blast, let death devour, 
If heaven but recompense our pains, 
Perish the grass, and fade tlie flower, 
If firm the word of God remains* 

Yet these, new-rising from the tomb. 
With lustre brighter far shall shine ; 
Revive with ever-dUring bloom. 

Safe from diseases and decline. 


THE E!VD. 



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